


Zelgan Week 2016 Collection

by BonJiro



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Prompt Fic, Zelgan Week 2016, shortfics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6535771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonJiro/pseuds/BonJiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble ficlets to celebrate Zelgan Week (on tumblr), based upon the event prompts: Clouded Jewelry, The Hunt, Rare Flowers, Undeath, Sweet Talk, The Oldest Shade of Red, and one FREE-FOR-ALL slot. Episodic. (also the first break in a long writer's block)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clouded Jewelry

The minute he lays eyes on her, the Gerudo can know her to be Zelda almost without fail. He suspects, when she looks down into the depths of him, she can recognize him just as intimately as well.

No matter how many lifetimes may pass the both of them by, this is so–each of them eternal in their way, ancient and indomitable, renewed with every life and reborn as fresher skin grows over the same core. Even the boy is not immune to this. A new shell often brings new disguise to them all, and he has seen his foes–his counterparts–change their looks many times over the course of their long history. He can almost map them out in his mind, blurred though the many memories can often seem as they run together.

He has seen her wear fluffy wisps of hair in an auburn shade, a strange colour upon one so pale, and seen her flinch to stand petite and slight while biding her temper. He has recognized her with long locks of gold, braided at the ends to frame glass jaw and grace feline back, a creature of frightening speed and elegance whose tongue would raze you. He has known her to be a shrewd brunette, tacit and stern with a mind that ticked over a constant game of war, draped in doom and leading him through a labyrinth of ill decision that saw him undo himself for her. He has even seen her walk the world as a man, tanned and svelte to travel as a shadow, eerily constant; a damning presence like the burning wick of a powder keg and twice as forceful in his sudden impact. 

Out of the many skins Zelda has worn, though, there is one feature that will ever out her to his senses.

Her eyes are constant, reliable, and unmistakable.

Colour wise? Of course, he had met her gaze to find many brilliant shades. Like precious gemstones, he had seen the vast depths of sapphires, the hardened glint of rubies, the crisp determination of emeralds. But these pristine jewels are as stained glass, he knows, merely windows to the familiar and unchanging soul beneath. Zelda peers outward through them with all the knowing befitting her title as the Bearer of Wisdom, and it is in _that_ he knows her–this hidden camber, this mystery and meeting of his eyes and hers, the clash of vision and the sparks of recognition to be born there.

It is a cycle not unlike many before it when this life finally sweeps him before her, with fluttering cape and the scent of smoke carried in his wake. The cry of monstrosities and the tang of blood mingle vaguely in the air, and his boots fall muted against carpet runner as he moves to stand before her. He does not grace the many fallen soldiers with even a glance, littered around her throne room as they are. Already, his golden eyes trace her form with a curious, almost eager, challenge in them. 

She sits calmly upon the seat of her supposed power, betraying nothing of her unrest, a somber figure that has relinquished none of her pride. Dark blonde locks tell him she will likely be crafty and resourceful, as per the trends he has long identified. She is lean and lithe, but not frail, and he sees the rapier laid across her lap and knows well it is not merely for show. Her regalia is well tailored yet practical, she forgoes adornment where possible. A worthy opponent, he thinks, in the fight for Hyrule’s crown.

But even as he stops before her dais, her eyes remain closed; this Zelda will not even look at the face of her enemy. A more potent insult than she realizes, in truth, and he wonders of her self-assurance. An intimidation technique, perhaps. The somber sovereign does not even lift her head, and finally, he considers that she may be in prayer.

“If it is to the Gods you are appealing,” he begins low, his voice echoing through the chamber in a low rumble, “Do not bother. They have selective hearing, after all.”

He sees her fingers curl, as a slight frown twists her face, the smallest tilt of her head given as if to track the sound of his voice. 

“I see.” There is a moment of hesitation, before her lips move. Her voice is quiet, though firm. “I am to assume all this bloodshed is the product of seeking the means to turn their ears to you, then?”

His gaze narrows upon her, a quizzical frustration ticking the corner of his mouth. “…It is hardly the habit of your kind to assume anything else.” he quips in spite, before lifting his jaw to her. He studies her, even as her expression changes again, her brows furrowing. “For the moment, my focus is upon your throne. Most pressingly, your worthiness to be seated upon it over my own.”

“I have been informed that you hail from the Westerlands–” she begins, something diplomatic and removed upon her tone, but his volume cuts across hers with a far greater authority.

“ _Look at me._ ” he orders, a growl by his lips and a blaze in his eyes. “Lift your head to attend and recognize what you face. This is not simply a declaration of war, nor a usurper come to bear upon your kingdom. Do you have no inkling as to who stands before you, or do you mean to incite my ire with your games?”

The echo of it fades, and the chamber seems to grow still, as if the world has taken pause to acknowledge error. Silence stretches out between them, and Zelda does not move until he repeats again, quiet and urgent as if it is more vital that he sees _her_ , “… If only once in your life, you must look at me. Grant me that slim respect, at least.”

Finally, the sovereign raises her head in full, proud and regal as ever as her lashes lift to reveal which gem this incarnation possesses. There is something formally telling in the way her chin lifts, the way her shoulders set, the way her mouth holds a small and stoic line that expresses her perfectly–in her breath, pouring from every pore of her skin. From all these places, he is struck by her, he knows her and recognizes her, can see her soul within her just as clearly as if he were looking through her eyes. She seems to  _exude_ all that is Zelda.

But there is no sapphire, no ruby or emerald through which the glint can show. No, the jewels of her eyes have clouded, and though he sees her, she does not see him.

“Does this satisfy you?” she asks so quietly it is almost a hiss, as if contemptuous of his notions of respect. “I have indulged your cruel humour. Name yourself.”

A sinking feeling he cannot name nor hope to ignore claims him, and something deep seeded and old in him almost seems to crumble beneath the weight of her empty gaze. A strange sense of claustrophobia grips him, as if he is still trapped within the void and lost to this world; a ghost merely whispered of and never seen. Never known. 

Anger, too, sears to life within his veins. A silent curse goes up toward the fates, for daring to belittle him so–have his losses seen this shallow handicap form? Do they spite her with disadvantage for fear he cannot meet success elsewise? Do they dare to simply spite him, erase him, punish them both and see that his last true anchor in this world no longer knows the lines of his face, cannot feel the spark of destiny ignite her when he enters the same room?

They dare to cheapen her, is the last in a long string of thoughts not built upon pity, but a personal dismay he cannot truly identify.

Her mouth twitches when she detects movement from him, stiffening in her seat as a gloved hand moves to take the grip of her sword, but a large hand catches her wrist before she can. The shift in light brings warmth to her skin as his shadow moves, the sound of metal set down lightly to stone suggesting he had knelt before her. An act, in and of itself, that shocks her deeply, but not as much as the sensation of tugging that swiftly reliefs her hand of the glove that covered it.

“Look at me.” he repeats again, just as forcefully as before, and waits.

Her features settle from their shock into a cautious, incredulous expression. Hesitation brings her hand slowly to search for him, first meeting the cool polish of armoured shoulder, before breezing strong neck and steady pulse. Her curiosity begins to take holds when her fingertips brush the bristling of a well groomed beard. Patiently, he allows her to travel the curve of his cheek, the corner of his mouth as her eyes close once more. Her thumb sweeps the shape of his nose, the hair of his brow, glides softly over his eyelids. She follows his jawline. She meets his temple. Her palm soaks up his aura and heat. 

She builds him up, and slowly, rather than instantly, he watches the change come over her; washing over her mind with the image she forms. Her head inclines, and she seems to sober; a cynical, almost rueful half-smile flashes across her lips and he grows satisfied.

“Do you understand now who I am?” he asks her, squinting at her closely. “Or must I name myself still?”

“… No,” she breathes, an odd mixture of both relief and dread as her head shakes lightly. “I believe I understand things perfectly,” she pauses as she hears him rise before her with a grunt, “Ganondorf.”

He nods, reclaiming his full stature once more, as dark magic thickens the air to betray his growing smirk.

“Excellent.”


	2. Hunt

 

She moved with a feverish pace about her chambers.

Like a great force of nature to whip up the winds and tear through all before it, the usual calm and quiet expected of the Princess was shattered. All the papers of her writing desk were now strewn about her floor, her ink well knocked over to spill and set a steady drip as it pooled off the wood. Entire drawers had been pulled free from it and discarded just as quickly to see their contents scattered. It was the first and logical place, that desk, where some cosmic error had been discovered and Zelda’s frantic manner had begun.

From there, things had only spiraled into madness. And rightly so, for she felt her sanity must be slipping as her desperation and confusion grew, turning her attention to any vague possibility. Muttering prayers and curses under her breath, she pulled every book from her oaken shelving, flipping through them and looking for any sign of a loose page.  
Dutifully, for an hour at least, the blonde had worked through them--a few old secrets lay hidden in those tomes, but as she suspected she would, they would not reveal her prize. Hot tears had threatened to blur her vision before she was even half way through her book case, sitting on the cold stone floor in a fit of pique. Easily a hundred of them, Zelda had built up a small fort of literature around herself before moving on hopelessly. 

It was by this point that denial had begun to take hold. She pulled a small chest from beneath her bed, sullying her skin with the dustiness, and unable to help herself, rummaged deep through the dresses that no longer fit her. She knew full well there was nothing more to find, aside from an old lockbox containing her childhood collection of seashells...

Precious, yes, but not nearly as much _his_ _letters._

A hitched breath caught in her throat to see a few tears break loose, redness tinting her cheeks as she brought a fist down upon her knee. She cast a damning gaze across the old garments that now littered her floor as well, her frustration and dread settling in now to stay.

How could they simply vanish from her like this? Could it have been another trick of his, just another of his games to test her patience? For a long moment she cursed his name, a pang of pure hurt igniting in her veins, but soon enough she dismissed this awful thought. She let her head hang low, glaring into her lap to watch the odd tear drop fall and dot her night slip.

No, he would not toy with something so important between them; something so treasured and sacred. Perhaps those pages had merely been enchanted, designed to disappear if neglected too long for both of their safety--erase the evidence, should the worst have happened. A pained expression swept her features as she winced for the notion that their absence may have been her own fault; knowing she may never lay eyes upon those letters again.

That thought alone stitched into her bones a guilty thread of loss, and curled her fingers tight into the silken fabric about her legs. In those secretive documents was almost everything they had shared--and quite possibly _would_ _ever_ share--together, not for a lack of effort to the contrary. She couldn’t do without them. Not when his letters were, perhaps, the only true communication left to them now; at least not until their plans came to bear.

When she closed her eyes and pressed those letters to her lips, she could smell the salt of him and almost taste the heat of his desert home. She would breath the faint wisp of the incense he used to clear the bad spirits from his bedchamber in the morning. She could feel the light grit of sand against the page. Her gaze could trace the curl and flick of his penmanship, written by brush instead of quill, and follow his moods. She could watch him in her mind’s eye as his features turned from searing anger of a slighted King, to the brash confidence of a younger man, to the sullen and somber quietude of a brother with one less sister to know. She could hear his timbre rumbling against her ear, and see the twitch of his brows or the sharpness of his eyes. The twisted humour of his smirk; the unexpected brightness of his lopsided smile.

She could meet the dangerous intrigue of his golden gaze, and feel the sweeping touch of calloused hands that desperately wished to steal her.

Zelda could pretend, in those moments, that she was free to see him as she pleased; that he could be with her still so easily.

The sound of steps behind her brought her from her reverie, fleet of foot and hardly there at all--no creaking door to announce, no weight of presence. No more than a cat slinking across her windowsill, or perhaps a shadow flitting across her wall. The blonde would raise her head to glance back over her shoulder, eyes bleary now from the fruitless search and the dread of coming up empty handed. They were supposed to be in her desk; _they were always in her desk under lock and key._

“...Quite a mess you’ve made, Princess.” the Sheikah’s tone echoed out softly behind her, something stern and drawn. Zelda needn’t truly look at her attendant to know the grimace she wore--that quiet yet forceful disapproval.

Not just for the state of her chambers, she knew.

“What did you do with them, Impa?” she rasped low, her voice broken for the lump in her throat and the unwelcome flicker of anger hidden there. 

A silver brow arched unseen behind her. “... With what, your Highness?”

Zelda’s voice cracked as her temper escaped her in desperation. “Do not feign ignorance now, after all the things I would confide in you!” she bent double as if in pain, hugging into herself as if attacked from within, a sob hitching in her throat dryly. 

“Do not do this to me, Impa...” she turned her head more to eye the other woman from the corner of her reddened eye, “... Please, we have been through this before... just let it be, I beg you. I can handle the consequences of my actions should things fall to pieces, but until I can _be_ with him, please...  _give them back_.”

A hard crimson stare traced her form from behind, stoic and unchanging as a lengthy silence stretched out between them. She would not unfold her arms from over her chest, though the terse reticence had bandaged fingers tick. A small battle of wills drew on to thicken the air, misting itself amongst the sheer chaos that was her rooms--Impa finally conceded to scan her surrounds once more, a rueful sort of sigh leaving her as her exterior cracked.

To the distraught form of the Princess, the Sheikah threw an incredulous squint, and inclined her head to whisper.

“... Things have already begun to fall apart, Zelda. This sordid affair of yours cannot stand while we sit on the brink of war, you know this.” she breathed, concern lacing her words as she turned away. “Nothing good will come of it. If you refuse your father’s wishes any longer, things will only get worse from here. Marrying the Labrynnian Prince may not be the fantasy you wish for, but to elope with the Gerudo King shall not be so either, and mark me, the suffering will find you far quicker than peace.”

“Impa, _please_...”

“This is no simple matter, and those consequences you claim to welcome are dire--”

“Do you think I have not weighed this matter carefully? I am _not_ the whimsical child you still seem to see me as any longer!” came a harrassed hiss, defiant and damning as the glare sent over her shoulder--one that shocked Impa to see her wear, knowing full well she borrowed it from her Gerudo correspondent. 

“...And if you care for me at all, you will not continue trying to dissuade me. My mind is set, Impa. You know I welcome your judgement on most matters, but on this...” she sucked a breath through her teeth and simply shook her head, returning her gaze to her lap once more to glare. “I am done discussing it. Return my letters and say nothing more of it.”

Another long silence came and went, but with great relief, Zelda was rewarded with the sound of the Sheikah’s steps and the slap of a small bundle of parchment being dropped upon her desk.

“I should very well burn them, you know.” Impa would admit carefully, without looking back. “Your father has caught wind of the rumours of misconduct between you and your... _unapproved suitor_... last the Gerudo envoy traveled here. Your handmaidens have since been instructed to search for any further confirmation, so I took it upon myself to remove any evidence... but it is only a matter of time before your plans are exposed, either way.”

A grave sort of pause came of the attendant, and then, curtly, “To your father’s face, at least, you should be thankful for my ‘feigned ignorance’. If you are certain of your choice, Zelda, I won’t stand in your way. But I _will_ be disappointed.”

Zelda’s heart sunk lower as the Sheikah made to leave her, a sigh and a whisper of defeat in the small gratitude she gave. “I _am_ thankful. Truly, Impa, I am... but I must disappoint you still.” she reaffirmed, “I have never been more certain than this. It must be this way, I know it in the very depths of me. If I marry Prince Raphael simply to sate the tensions between his father and mine, something far worse will come of it, I am sure.” 

“ _That_ is because you tempt a _demon_ with scented letters.” the Sheikah would scold.

“What’s done is done, Impa. I might have misplaced my heart in your eyes, but I am also in possession of his. If I can not go to him, he will only come to  _me_... and if he does...” a twisted, worrisome sort of smile took her lips to twist them, an odd mixture of dread and pride. 

“... It  _must_ be this way.” she’d repeat once more. “My resulting happiness will merely be fortuitous.”

“Then I pray his hunt for your hand is merciful...” came one last regretful, conceding sigh as she stood before the door, resting bandaged fingers upon the handle. 

“...Or else, Gods help us all.”


	3. Rare Flowers

The sky was a clear and cloudless blue as the sun shone down upon the castle gardens, vibrant with the colours of spring and full of new life.

An expecting Queen strolled along in the company of a Gerudo Matriarch, engaged in polite conversations concerning the sovereign’s rounded belly, her second child soon to be born. Over the course of her Majesty’s pregnancy, she had seen that her midwives rather exclusively came from the Desert Tribe of the West, having already seen her through a complicated birth with her first child. 

If not for the redhead who walked beside her, in fact, the Queen knew well she might have never lived to see her daughter grow.

Not too far from the leaders could that child be found, her friendship with the Matriarch own son seemingly just as strong, though the children had only met for the first time three months prior. An instant connection between the young Princess and the Gerudo Prince had sparked, much to the relief of their mothers, and the Queen offered a small titter as she watched the two play about the hedges in chase.

“They simply bring each other to life, now, don’t they?” the sovereign would muse, happily, “I’m relieved to see them getting along so well.”

The Matriarch would hum through a smirk, casting amber eyes toward the children herself. “It is like fate dances with them.” she considered briefly, her accent thick and proud, “She has grown from the weak thing she was on her first light, that  _Marilali_ of yours _…_ She is already as swift as my son. _”_ she laughed. 

“I should think they will grow closer yet,” the Queen would remark with a rise of her brow, something eager shining in her eye. “I wouldn’t be surprised if something more bloomed between them, with time…” she paused to whisper, leaning in closer as the Gerudo gave her a quizzical look, before the meaning began to hit her.

Their laughter would come easily for that as they continued on their walk together, drawing the brief curiosity of their children in turn as the pair paused their play to look, wondering what seemed so amusing. Unable to find the source, and innocent to the speculations of those older and wiser than they, the scene was quickly dismissed between them.

“I wonder what was so funny…” the young Princess would question aloud, tottering back around the hedge to see the Gerudo boy offer a light shrug and a wave of his hand, as if it didn’t matter.

“Talk, always…” he said bluntly, not nearly as familiar with the Hylian tongue as his mother was, but too proud not to try. “But not say anything, very much.” he supposed.

The blonde would tilt her head, considering what he meant for a moment, before her features brightened into a happy smile. She’d hold her hand out to him then, suddenly excitable with the whimsy of youth. “Well, nevermind that then… Come with me, I’ll show you the fountain.”

“Fown-ten?” came an incredulous frown as he hesitantly placed his hand in hers, but Zelda’s bright enthusiasm went undeterred as a tight grip took his fingers over.

“Yes, fountain.” she giggled, tugging at his arm as she turned to pull him along. “Your Hylian is so bad, Ganondorf.” she lightly teased with an offhanded sort of air.

“Is not my bad…!” the boy would frown in defense, hissing back at her, “It is  _yours_ bad!” But at this, the Princess’ giggles simply doubled, and in a slight huff, the redhead would tear his hand back and plant himself on the spot; tanned cheeks taking on the faintest tinge of red as the gold of his eyes burned brighter. “Not laugh, is true!” 

The Princess would turn back to him, holding in more laughter with puffed cheeks as she dug chubby fingers into the skirts of her dress. “Well, I don’t understand you any better when you get all huffy! You know I don’t speak Gerudo…” she offered blindly, padding forward again with every expectation he’d still follow.

“That because you c _holkés…!_ Not mine fault if yours!” he’d hiss again, scrunching his nose up at the other child.

 _“_ It’s all my fault then, Ganondorf. You’re _always_ right…” she’d concede easily, hopping across a small path of stones so as to avoid the cracks. “Now, are you coming or not?”

 _“Safkura.”_ he’d snort spitefully with a roll of his eyes, crossing his arms in light protest and casting a glare toward some shrubbery as Zelda disappeared behind another hedge.  

His frustration with the girl was short lived as he stood there, stubbornly refusing to follow after her for her slight. In the peaceful shadow of the foliage, the young Prince would sigh and run his fingers through the short crop of crimson hair he sported. In that quiet moment, left to his own devices and surrounded by the foreign bloom of flowering greenery, Ganondorf allowed his thoughts to wander some.

The Hyrulian Princess was a strange girl, and while that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she was a mystery to him in many ways–everything she said or did was always new, or unexpected. Not that he fully understood everything she said, of course, but he knew enough. She wasn’t like his sisters or aunts, but neither was she like her mother, the Queen. A little spoiled, and sometimes quite stupid for one who spoke like her spirit was older than her body, but even so, he could see that she was a kind person who never truly meant any harm.

Soft steps would carry him closer to a nearby topiary littered with blossoms he had never seen nor knew to name, and carefully, the boy would brush his fingers across a few of them, wondering of the girl who saw them everyday. He found himself wishing he had studied more of her language before coming here, if only to get a fuller understanding of how she saw the world. He might’ve liked to hear her describe these flowers, he thought, and compare it against the words he would choose; see what the difference was. See if he could map the distance between her mind and his, in order to close it and become closer.

Maybe then, it wouldn’t matter if they spoke the same words about things or not. The heart could understand things at a glance, between those who shared a bond. He felt like he knew her so well… like the Great Goddess had tied them together with a string of fate, hoping they would meet. 

But he couldn’t tell if she felt the same. Not really. Certainly, she seemed to like him his company, but that was hardly a surprise. It wasn’t as if she had siblings and aunts and cousins to keep her company, as he did; she was only just getting a younger sibling now. She was almost rude, sometimes, in how overzealous she was to make a friend… so much so, he sometimes couldn’t tell if she would act the same way with everyone her age, or if it was just him she seemed so determined to be friendly to. It could easily have been that she was overly attentive to his company for the close friendship their mothers shared. 

But, she didn’t know enough of his tongue, and he struggled to make sense of hers–there was no way, with words alone, they could actually talk about their true feelings in any depth of meaning. 

How did one ask? How could he even begin to ask her if she felt he had always been there, living next to her like two rare flowers on the same branch, blooming together in the springs of many lifetimes?

How could he even _begin_ to describe that strange feeling of the familiar, of recognition and fatefulness; let alone ask if she felt it too, or why?  

His head hung low with another sigh as he lamented that great barrier between them. Distracted as he was by such thoughts, however, the boy wouldn’t hear the stealthy approach of the Princess behind him until it was far too late; her palms planting themselves into his shoulders to push. 

“Surprise!” came the shout, and startled, the Gerudo gave an indignant cry as he found himself propelled into the flowering plant to be half-swallowed in the leaves and petals. Immediately, a cloud of pollen would envelop them both to lightly dust their hair and clothes, irritating the Prince to cough while Zelda devolved into another fit of giggling at his expense. A loud string of cursing came tearing out of the struggling boy’s mouth as he thrashed about trying to free himself from the shrubbery, spluttering and scowling all the while.

The Princess was doubled over in mischief-driven mirth by the time Ganondorf had righted himself, freed from the branches and snarling more foreign insults at her, his previous train of thought disrupted. He’d lash out to grab her wrists while she was still in the throes of hysterics, and without hesitation would retaliate, swinging her around to send her careening into the blossoms as well. Zelda squealed as he did so, thrown back-first into the shrub to squash it further, though seemed to be quite enjoying herself despite it all–immediately, her laughter returned, even as the Gerudo Prince made to storm away.

“G-gan–Ganondorf, wait…!” Zelda called between her giggling and gasping for breath, “Come back, I’m sorry, truly, I was only tricking..!” But seeing he was unmoved, the girl would make more effort to swallow her fitful joy, looking about herself for a way to make it up to him. Plucking up one of the undamaged flowers, she’d tussle her way free and back onto her feet, padding quickly after him. “Ganondorf!”

Catching him, the blonde would reach for his shoulder to lightly grab it, earning herself a glare as the Gerudo Prince watched her round him and stand in his path, her smile still bright and her cheeks still pink. With a scowl, he made to set about her, tell her she was annoying and to leave him be, but as the boy drew breath to do so, the Princess would almost shove the blossom into his face.

“Here.” she breathed, panting lightly as her smile softened. “I know I might pick on you some, but I do appreciate your being my friend, you know. I promise!” she said, snatching his hand even as he pulled away from her with suspicion, “You’re the first boy to really bother to talk to me… Well, I mean… Well, you know what I mean. I’m not very good at explaining it, but it’s nice to have somebody I can be myself with who won’t look at me strangely if I play rough, or tell on me. You don’t mind at all… you treat me no different than some of your sisters.” she smiled, “It’s nice to have somebody to practice with. I’ve never been a sister before, after all, and sometimes I watch you and think ‘well, I can do that’.”

As she spoke, she’d open his palm up, placing the flower inside his hand gently and looking up to meet his golden eyes with her own steely blue. “You’re not really like a brother to me though… I do feel like we’ve known each other forever, somehow, even though you don’t talk all that much, but it’s… different than a brother. I know you probably don’t know what I’m trying to say, but I’m… relieved, somehow… that you’re so nice to me. Before you came here, this might sound silly, but I was almost… afraid you wouldn’t _like_ me.” 

Her smile faltered as her brows furrowed, unsure of how to express this to him–or even if he understood it. He had a sort of blank look on his face, and she was almost certain all of that had gone right over his head. She waited for his response expectantly, offering him a forgiving look as he seemed to simply stare at her. After a few moments, it almost looked as if he was going to say something, but he second-guessed whatever it was and remained silent, instead frowning lightly to cast his gaze to the flower he now held.

With a small sigh, Zelda shook her head, only to reinforce her smile and let the thought go, knowing there wasn’t really anything she could do about it.

“… Well, enough of that, then,” she chirped, tilting her head and motioning for him to follow. “Besides, I really do want to show you the fountain. I won’t push you in, I swear.”

With that, she’s start back toward wherever she’d disappeared to, and with the same sort of little sigh, Ganondorf, too, gave up on it all to follow after her. He gave the blossom one last look before a small smirk took his cheeky features over, most of what she had said indeed sounding like nonsense to his ears–she spoke too quickly for him to catch most things. He had the feeling that he understood her meaning, though, even if the words specifically escaped him, and pocketing the flower, walked a little quicker to catch up to her.

Perhaps they didn’t really need the words for an understanding to bloom between them, after all.


	4. Undeath

She slid quickly and quietly back into her rooms, wearing a tight lipped grimace and the weight of disappointment. 

It was an almost irritable itch Zelda carried with her privately, in no true mood for any company and wishing she could avoid the world for a day or two, get her bearings in the chaos of everything. Her head was swimming with all that she still had left to do, locking her up in her own little bubble of thought, and as she knelt beside her bed to draw out an old leather trunk, she found herself wishing she could simply stay in it.

In truth, she wanted nothing more than to be alone, frustrated hands pulling the trunk up and onto her bed to open it, methodically removing some of the sewing gear she had packed inside. Unfortunately, she was not alone. In fact, she shared her chambers with a secret occupant, and though she’d barely given him any cue–pointedly refusing to even look at him–she could feel his golden eyes upon her, studying her with a miffed despondence.

She could almost count the seconds down to the clearing of his throat, and the gall he had, after all he’d done, to even speak without invitation.

“Have I forfeited the right to even a brief greeting, Zelda?” came the familiar rumble, a low and thinly-veiled distaste simmering away in the tone.

Still, the Princess refused to offer him even the barest glance, her grimace wavering upon an indignant scowl as she bit her tongue. Ignoring the bait, she focused upon her task, removing a small tangle of thick twine from where it was tucked into her slip and setting it on the spread of her sheets. 

Again the Gerudo pried at her, seemingly desperate to receive her gaze, even if only a glare was given. “You may keep your reticence if you like.” he offered mutely, “But at least have the decency to look at me… do I truly disgust you so thoroughly, now? It is _you_ who has arranged things as they stand–”

Tersely, the brunette would cut him off, still refusing visual acknowledgement for the moment as she laid out a small collection of needles, “I have every right to be cross with you, Ganondorf.” she said, hovering over which to choose. 

“Regardless of what I’ve done to fix your messes, you are still the one at fault here. I shall not be shamed for trying to pick up the pieces and salvage _something worthwhile_ out of all of this…” she paused briefly to shake her head, “This  _chaos_ you’ve brought me.”

With an air of disregard, she plucked a large needle from her kit, the sort usually fit to mend mattresses, and plucked up a loose end of the twine to suck upon it. She saw his thick brows twitch from the corner of her eye, and glanced just enough to see the curl of his lip–a sulk, if anything, laced with frustration and a little self-pity if she weren’t mistaken. But his anger was always burning away, in the camber of his glare; a war of pride, regret and disappointment, she assumed. 

She gave a patient, if resigned, sort of sigh–the bearer of Power never did well to feel powerless. “…You do not disgust me, but you do well enough to disappoint me frequently.” she chastised musingly, offering him a look of sidelong resentment. “Honestly, it is a wonder I’ve still got the patience for it.”

A derisive snort came in response, “A fine sentiment coming from the woman who sought to have me murdered not three weeks ago.” But as he gained nothing for it, not even the roll of her eyes, the Gerudo let his bitterness fade back again, unwilling to sacrifice the sound of her voice, despite himself.

Evasively, golden eyes would travel toward the canopy of her bed from where he laid, tracing the wood grain patterns there. He found himself reminded of the last time he had bedded her, here under the noses of guards and handmaidens alike… a rather coy affair it had been, too, and an unexpected twist in his plans. An unwelcome distraction, too, in many ways. He wouldn’t be here now, caught in such a position and hidden away in her rooms like a dirty secret with nothing to show for it, if he had simply stayed the course.

He was at her mercy entirely now, he knew. 

Then again, perhaps he always had been, to even get as far as he did.

Hesitantly, and quite softly, he would chance to ask, “… You are almost done with it?” a hopeful, humble little whisper it was too; careful and shameful against the normal, deep timbre.

“I’d be less concerned with the progress I’ve made, and focus more upon your own.” she warned lightly, firmly, as she threaded the twine through the needle-eye. “It could be, or it could be another fifty years more, depending on whether I believe you deserve to have it back. It’s entirely down to you when we shall be ‘done’.”

His frown returned to that, his mouth drawing into a thin line. “…Your clemency could almost be claimed _divine,_ Zelda.” he quipped, sarcastic, “I would hardly have been so spiteful to _you._ ”

“We shall sadly never know, will we?” she returned evenly, as she focused on carefully removing her project from the trunk, “In any case, I could just as easily have left you to the Hero’s sense of justice–”

“You _did_.” he protested with a snarl and a flash of his eyes, “Though I would hardly call it _‘justice’_.”

She drove the needle inward to click her tongue, tidying up some fraying edges. “… Well, I could have left you out in the field when he was _through_ with you.” She’d concede to cast him a steely look, and arching a brow, paused her work to consider him carefully. He stared back at her with a hard and leveling look that betrayed his ire at her flippancy, but Zelda simply weathered it to ask, rather grimly, “Did you really think I wouldn’t see you killed if I thought it was necessary?”

The Gerudo would stare at her for a long while, brows furrowed and a slow study of her features taken. She formed the ghost of a smile, a rueful thing, and brought a hand to run through his hair gently as his eyes closed; lost in the touch for the moment. It has been a small eternity since she’d graced him with even that light token of affection.

 “…No.” There was something small and defeated in the way he whispered it, but also filled with a strange pride. “But the fact that you didn’t… I’m yet to decide if it is mercy or cruelty.”

A thoughtful moment passed as her hand slid down his cheek, only to break away again and gently take up the needle. “It is both, I should think. As to which one each of us receives, that remains to be seen.” She took a ragged scrap in hand and started working to neaten it, musing as she did. 

Though he wondered what the results of her sewing were, he couldn’t see her work, simply listening to the subtle sounds of her fingernail against metal, or the taut bounce of twine. After a minute or so, tracing the canopy once more, another small whisper left him like a grave secret. “I never had any intention of being cruel to you. Unfair, perhaps, but never cruel.”

“I never asked you to be kind, Ganondorf, I asked you to be honest.” Zelda would answer distantly, weaving the needle mechanically. “But for the record, allowing somebody to believe that you love them, when you do not, _is_ cruel.”

“I did…” he defended weakly, more to himself than her, “Maybe not at first, but I did–” he hesitated to admit, “–still  _do,_ despite all–” 

“No.” she almost hissed, pointing the needle at him to glare, a simmering hurt lingering in the blue of her eyes as the flew a fraction wider. “There’s no point to say it now, after what you’ve done. After what you would have done despite how genuine any of your false promises or sweet nothings may have become by chance.” Briefly, Zelda’s anger returned to harden her features, a cold glare given as she’d repeat with quiet force, “… I’ll never be able to believe you, so don’t you dare go saying such a thing now.”

He almost winced, a rare flash of guilt worn upon every line of his face, but his silence spoke volumes more of that regret. Even as the Princess finished her work, threading the last stitch, she muttered. “I keep you because I have earned you, _not_ because I have forgiven you.”

A swift and uncaring bite would snap the twine she used and the needle would be set aside to rest upon the unfurled kit, a satisfied sort of sigh coming for it all as she took both hands to the Gerudo’s cheeks. Lifting his head from her now bloodstained lap to inspect the tidied gore of his neck, she quietly cursed Link’s penchant for decapitation–it had been such a drain on her, between keeping both a head alive and rebuilding his wounded body.

At least now, he might not drip everywhere.

“You may have broken _your_ promises… but no matter the consequences, I intend to keep mine.” She smiled numbly, flicking a glance upward to meet his gaze, as a feral glint shone in her eyes. “In defiance of you, of nature and of the Gods themselves, _I will keep mine.”_  

“But it _will_ be done soon…?” he’d ask again quickly. He was almost desperate as the Princess moved to place him back into the trunk, but quickly tried to swallow the slight fear that she may have been serious, and actually leave him to spend another fifty years in it. He offered an almost nervous smirk, covering it some. “After all, the date of our wedding is quickly approaching, and I can hardly ‘return from the West’ without a body, can I?”

Still smiling that awful curve, Zelda would place a single kiss to his brow, letting it linger there so that he might drink deep of the small affection, filled with life giving magic as it was. Then, without even another word, she would surrender him to the dark solitude of her trunk once more, ignoring the muffled sound of her name as she closed it.

 _Perhaps another week or two_ , she thought.


End file.
